Scarlet Tears
by Tiva4evaxxx
Summary: "But none of them, none of that mattered, not when every single minute counted. It could mean the difference between life and death." Dark Jisbon oneshot. HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAY :D For OutCold, go R&R her stuff for her birthday ; She's an amazing writer.


**Ugh. FINALLY! Oh well :P I did it, with an hour or so to spare. This Hayley (OutCold's) birthday present. :D HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAY! And sorry it's so depressing. I'll post the fluffy one at some point... i promise. This has literally taken me FOREVER. I swear, it feels like i've been writing this for weeks :L So sorry for the repetition. Okay i'm going to do this now, so nobody yells at me. WARNING: Depressing. So yeah. if you're easily upset then you probably shouldn't read this. :P **

**Disclaimer: I would totally be on this website if i owned the mentalist. **

Scarlet Tears

All he could feel was the terror coursing through him, all he could focus on was his heart beating in his chest, the shaky breathing of his co workers as they raced towards their destination.

He'd had her for over twenty four hours.

To be precise, twenty five hours, and forty two minutes.

Red John had had Lisbon for that long.

It had taken them twenty five hours and twenty two minutes to work out where she was. And every second counted. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, normally it would have made him twitch in anticipation, but today he was deadly still. Concentrating on breathing – breathing in and out, steadily. Evenly. Needing it to be enough for both of them, needing her to still be breathing like he was. His glance flickered towards the digital clock on the screen. Twenty four hours and forty three minutes, he pushed down on the accelerator violently, shaking the rest of the passengers in the car. But none of them, none of that mattered, not when every single minute counted. It could mean the difference between life and death.

When their destination was in sight, he could've sworn his heart stopped, just for a second, his calm steady breathing hitched, and then his heart started again, so fast, so loud, that he was surprised that no one else could hear it.

She had to be alive. She had to be alive and breathing, because she deserved so much more than this. She deserved so much more than him. He couldn't even tell her he loved her, he couldn't give her anything, when in such a short space of time she had given him so much. He wished more than anything that he could say the words too her soon, tomorrow, or the next day, and it scared him more than anything that he might never have the chance to tell her. He looked down at the note in his shaking hands.

_I have her, Mister Jane. The one you care so deeply for, the one who obviously cares very deeply for you – for someone like yourself, who has such insight into human nature, it greatly amuses me that you failed to see it, or, do anything about it. Yet again, you have failed. How does it feel? How does it feel to know that no matter how hard you try, you fail to protect those who are closest to you? I imagine it hurts. You are all too susceptible to love, it remains your greatest flaw. I would have thought the deaths of your family cured you, but you went and did it again. You lay yourself open, Mister Jane, and once more I am going to take from you the thing you care about the most. _

He drew up outside the address he had scrawled on the back of the note, just a house. An ordinary house, if they had driven past it any other day it wouldn't have even registered in their minds, but today it meant everything. Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho were moved along silently, flawless in their execution as a team. They burst through the door, and teams of other agents flooded in behind them. But the only thing that mattered was the sound of her voice, coming from one of the rooms down the narrow, dark corridor which led to stairs. "Jane," the desperation in her scream sliced through him, the pain so plain as she spoke that he could barely breathe as he ran, following the sound, "Jane," she cried out again, a sob cutting her off. The suffering he could hear in her words felt like a stab in the heart, like knives leaving bloody track marks, dragging across his skin. The relief that she was alive was immense, overwhelming, and it was clear the others felt it too. He needed to get to her now, relief was wonderful, but the fear was so much stronger. Fear of the shape she would be in, he needed to hold her in his arms and tell her all the things he should have said, that he wanted to say. He needed to open the last door. A sick anticipation built in the pit of his stomach, as he twisted the doorknob his mind flashed back to the same situation, five years ago, except there had been no pain filled voices last time. Just silence. He stood there before he opened the door, paralysed, unable to move. Unable to breathe.

Her soft whisper of "Help me," from the other side knocked him out of his trance like state, and he flung the door open.

The horrifyingly familiar smiley face was there, at eye level, an ugly stain on the clean, cream walls. His eyes flickered to a screen on the right, just in time to see a dark haired woman fall to the floor, and in that second his heart broke. Waves of pain washed over him, each one more agonizing that the previous.

He couldn't bring himself to tear his gaze from the screen, to look to the right, where he knew her body lay. He didn't have the strength. Instead he watched as the video restarted itself, he watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, as the man he presumed to be Red John told her in a low voice to call out his name, as she refused, as he cut her again and again until she screamed for him. And he watched as the man whose face was hidden stabbed her again and again, he watched as her body convulsed, as the pool of blood around her slowly grew, as any kind of fight she still had left her eyes. And he kept watching, even as she whispered 'Help me', even as her eyes, full of such anguish, green pools of pain - deadened, fluttered closed, and her body finally went limp.

Jane wasn't even aware of the others filing in, he vaguely heard their muffled gasps, and Grace's scream, but nothing was registering. His mind was blank, all he could feel was the pain. It was suffocating, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't do anything other than feel. And it was excruciating. The grief was overwhelming, the guilt, it was torturous. And he deserved every second of it.

He forced himself to direct his gaze towards the left side of the room. Her small body was crumpled in the corner, broken, blood pooled around her. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed. At least her suffering had ended, even if his had just begun. Her dark hair fell around her face, which was tainted by deep purple bruising; her arms and legs were practically bare, scarred by the long torturous cuts and angry bruises Red John had inflicted upon her. Tears full of pain and regret began to pour down his cheeks, and he didn't stop them.

It registered in his brain that the team had left, to give him some privacy, that he was alone. His eyes flickered to her bloodied hands, and his heart screamed at him, but he knew he had to get closer, he knew he had to look. Enclosed in her crushed hand was a white, dirtied piece of paper. Carefully, gently, he prised the piece of paper out of her hands. More tears poured down his face, as he realized with a jolt her skin was still warm. He slid down next to her, his back against the wall, still holding her soft bloodied hand, tears choking him. He unfolded the note, dread creeping slowly into him again. _'Look a little closer.'_ He read the line again and again. Gripping the paper till his hand was shaking, the other slipped into her lukewarm hand, replaying the words in his head.

Look a little closer.

He didn't want to look. He didn't want to see what he'd done to another innocent person. She was more than innocent though, she was special, and good, and emotionally damaged yet somehow so perfect at the same time. At least, she had been. Why did he always take the special ones? The ones who least deserved it? Of course, he knew the answer. It was to punish him. It was to punish him, and he hated himself for it. He was a mass of self loathing. This is the result of him getting close to someone again, of him _feeling_ something for someone again. It was dangerous for him to love, dangerous for the other person. Red Johns previous words rang loud and clear in his mind, '_You lay yourself open, Mister Jane, and once more I am going to take from you the thing you care about the most.' _

Again. Red John had won. Again he had succeeded. And now he was leaving him torturous clues. He wants him to look a little closer, which means that she suffered more than he first thought. He couldd think about not looking, but he could never disrespect her like that, he could never not know the whole truth. For her and for him.

Before he even realizes what he's doing, his eyes are roaming all over her, scrutinizing every cut, recording every bruise. As though he is measuring exactly what she has gone through, looking harder and harder, even though every second he can feel a searing pain in his heart. Excruciating. But it doesn't matter, it is nothing, nothing compared to what she went through. Once he's started, he can't stop, he can't tear his eyes away. Something is different, but that is no surprise to him. Everything about this murder is different. For once, he had strayed out of his MO. Especially for Lisbon, Jane thought bitterly.

He remembered her eyes, so pleading, so desperate towards the end, he remembered how her look went straight through him, tearing his heart. There had been more than pain and desperation in her eyes, there was the shallow pain, the pain that everyone could see, that was clear on the surface, it was physical, it hurt, but it was durable - because it had to be. But there was something deeper there, even deeper than the psychological torment, so why couldn't he see it? He knew the answer really; it was because he was too close, he didn't want to. With a jolt he realized he was still holding her tiny hand, it was limp, grasped tightly in his. His grip was strong, like if he held on hard it would be enough for both of them.

He knew he had to let go, in order to see. He knew he couldn't do it while he was holding her hand, with a sharp intake of breath, he let go, breathing shakily.

He didn't have the energy to move, too many emotions were being drained from him, whirling round his head, his heart, then being ripped away again. He continued his inspection of her, wondering if he would ever be able to stop his tears again. Gradually, he realized, drawing out the pain, making everything so much worse than before. Suddenly he was charged with energy, and he turned, pounding his fist on the wall till his hand was raw, throbbing with pain. The pain gave him something else to focus on, a slight relief, it was so much less tormenting than his emotional pain. Than thinking about what he had done to her.

But then he turned his eyes back to her body, to her torn clothes, her exposed bruised stomach. That look in her eyes. Now he thought about it, there had almost been an apology in her eyes. He closed his eyes, but as he blinked the tears kept falling. He had raped her. Red John.

Hate and pain and anger boiled over inside him, he shook uncontrollably, he sobbed in an attempt to control the pain. Red John should never have touched her. He was a monster. She was so precious, she deserved to be treasured, loved she deserved to have had someone as amazing as she was. As she had been. His heart twisted in pain, the thought of him taking her, he could hear her screams, her cries of terror, he could see her begging for him to stop. He could feel her pain, in knowing that he would blame himself for this. Every image that flashed through his mind chipped away at him a little more. But what hurt him the most was that he knew that while everything was happening, while she was being tortured, being put through living hell, he knew that she would have been thinking about what this would do to him.

It was just another thing he hated himself for.

If he hadn't fallen for her, if he hadn't cared, Red John would have left her alone. If only he hadn't joined the CBI, or immersed himself in the team, in their work, or most of all in her. If only their paths hadn't crossed, she hadn't captured his attention. If only. If only he hadn't fallen in love with her.

At least that way she would be safe.

He slipped his hand into hers again, finding a twisted kind of solace in the skin on skin contact, even though she was long gone. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the air.

Under one of her legs, he saw the glint of a blade, and, wincing, he picked it up. The blade was covered in blood, and it make him sick to his stomach knowing who it belonged to. He wrapped his fingers round the blade, feeling it slice into his fingers, breathing a sigh of relief at the shooting pain, at the same time regretting he could feel it, regretting he was still alive. He knew. He knew he didn't want to live like this, and the pain, the pain from his hand felt so good. So he just didn't stop, he drew the blade over his wrists again and again, and as the blood came, as it mingled with hers, nothing mattered anymore. Because anything was better than this. The last thing he heard as his vision became blurred, and his eyes started to close was the sound of Van Pelt's scream as she came back into the room, but it didn't matter, it was all fading so fast... As his world finally went dark, all he could see was her smiling face, a week, or maybe a few days before. When everything had been perfect. When he had been healing, thanks to her. It was strange, scary, how every second counted. One day everything was fine, the next his world was shattered into pieces, lying like shards of glass broken, scattered all around him. But knew better than most that life was fragile.

They had both known that.

***sobs* Lisbon's my favourite. This was horrible to write, and i can't quite believe i'm really posting. Sorry it's a bit of a mess... but i hope you liked it. Well i don't, because it's horrible... but i hope you thought it was okay. Hay? **

**Happy Birthday :P I know, it's a horrible present. **

**Thanks for reading :) **

**Emily xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**


End file.
